The Abyss Gazes Also
by Roach Patrol
Summary: It's hard to be a crazy ex-cop on the run, obsessed with bringing the virus that ruined your life to justice. It's worse when you finally find that virus and he wants to adopt you. Playing along's all in the name of revenge, right? Thrax/Jones, AU
1. Chapter 1

_Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you._

--Friedrich Nietzche

***

Things are different now that he's changed.

It isn't just his skin, isn't just his eyes. He's hungry all the time, burning through calories, struggling to heal every scratch and nick and bruise he picks up: trapped and starving in his own skin. He has become something inflexible and empty, something that lives on hate, a creature of need and fury and terrible compulsions.

_("Are you sure?" The virus had asked, eyes glowing green in the dark)_

He notices people differently. He's never been the kind of guy to pass up a free look, to ignore a smile from a pretty cell (_Leah_, something inside him grieves), but now he notices everyone, guys, girls, smiling and laughing and holding hands, eating snacks, walking their pets, doing their jobs and it's edged with the same hunger that laces through everything. He thinks, _If I could touch her, if I could hold him down, if I could bite, chase, sink my fingers in_... and he thinks_ I can't, I won't_.

But oh. He wants to.  
_  
(He'd said "Yes," and he had gritted his teeth and bared his wrist and said "Come on, I need this," and the virus had smiled with sharp, sharp teeth.) _

Figure One, Two, and Three: he knows how viruses like to reproduce. He knows what will happen to the pretty girl he lets himself smile back at, if he lets himself smile, knows that he'll drag her into the same nightmare. And he knows he can't let himself become the monster that he is chasing. He can only come so close as mirroring the man that has become his life.

He is pursuing Thrax, not becoming him. Justice will be done.

He's in a dive, some crappy blister of a joint, a club, eating. All he ever seems to do anymore is eat, beat up goons and worse scum for information and their pocket change and the brutal thrill of doing _something_, and then eat again. He doesn't need to sleep. He can't sleep. He can't stop. The hunger is in him like a live thing, burning and driving and infuriating. He needs something he can't name, starving for it. He is eating, and soon he will go out into this newest city (Johnny? Joshua? James? The names blur together, a litany of failure) and find someone to pound into the pavement, and then he will, maybe, be a step closer to finding--

Finding Thrax.

Who walks into the dive, two huge germs flanking him like nightmare bookends, head high and smile oblivious.

"Hey, brother," He drawls, and takes a seat at the bar beside Jones. "What's shaking?"

Jones goes hot with outrage, shocked into a scalding kind of paralysis: he is too angry to move, to speak, to wrap his hands around Thrax's face and squeeze until the man's yellow eyes run out of his head. It gives Thrax enough time to raise an eyebrow, then order a drink from the bar.

He doesn't know, of course. Of course. Osmosis Jones is maybe not dead, maybe just sleeping, but he has a thick red shell and the same dead yellow eyes and the same nasty, hungry mouth as the monster perched on a stool beside him. They could be brothers, or bookends.  
_  
("Am I done?" He had asked and the virus had said "Yeah, baby, you're done, pay up," and Jones had said "Here's what you deserve," and planted a big smoking hole between the other virus's eyes.) _

He's been staring too long.

"You all there, baby?" Thrax asks, his fingers long and elegant on his glass, a picture of sleek and lovely horror. He's got something that smells caustic and Jones wants it. Wants him. The hunger inside him roils and surges and he looks down at his meal, takes a hasty bite of the long-chain glucose noodles.

"I'm okay," He mumbles through his mouthful, ash-thick and cloying on his tongue. "Just one of those days, man."

"Don't I know it," Thrax says, all good humor, a murderer on his lunch break. "Get you something to drink?"

"I don't really drink," Jones says. He doesn't really know what would kill him.

"Nonsense," Thrax says, and gets him one of whatever he's got.

It smells worse close up, but it burns so nicely going down. "Thanks, man," He says, and he is surprised to find that he means it.

"I love this place," Thrax says conversationally."They treat a body right, here." He strokes the bar gently, almost lingering, and smiles at Jones. "Do I know you?"

_Yes,_ Jones wants to say, wants to scream _Yes, yes you _bastard_ You destroyed everything I ever loved, you took away my life, you made me into this, you _better_ know me._

Instead, he finished the last bite of sugar and shrugs. "I dunno," He says. It's not really a lie. "Jones," He says. He can't quite look him in the eyes.

"Thrax," the monster says, and raises his glass. "Charmed, baby."

Jones raises his own glass. The drink burns a little hotter the second time, and it is not entirely unlike meeting someone for the first time.

"So what brings you to town?" Thrax asks him, leaning into his space. "Business or pleasure?"

His breath is hot and smells of the acid drink, of something burning. Jones keeps his eyes on his empty plate, holding himself barely in check. Balancing. If he looks up he'll come apart, and the big bruisers on either side of Thrax look ready for a fight. He isn't so good at brawling these days, now that he has become what he is: off-balanced and starving, the goons would take him apart.  
_  
("You'll feel some initial disorientation," the virus had said.)  
_  
Thrax is still watching him. Jones draws his finger across the residue on his plate, licks it. He says, "Just passing through, man. Just trying to get by."

Thrax laughs. The sound is shocking, a warm friendly rumble, and he takes hold of Jones' hand. Jones goes stiff with shock, and Thrax brings his captive finger up as if he is demonstrating a piece of evidence.

"You're new at this, aren't you?" Thrax says. His voice is soft, amused. "You'll never get by if you keep trying to metabolize sugars. That shit's for cells, you're going to poison yourself."

Jones laughs, his own voice a hoarse rasp. He spreads his fingers wide in Thrax's grasp, meets his eyes, one poison-yellow set to another. "Like I'm fine already?" he asks, "Like this isn't poisoned enough?" His free hand gouging the counter, he demands, "What am I _supposed _to eat, then?"

Thrax, of all things, looks genuinely sympathetic. He leans back against the counter, takes a drink. "You _aren't_, baby," he says. "Just a little plasma cocktail now and again to keep you sharp. You'll get used to it."

He hasn't let go of Jones' hand.

"I'm so hungry," Jones says, and it's something like a confession. He says, whispers, "All the time, I'm so hungry all the time and it's driving me crazy."

Thrax chuckles into his glass. "We can do something about that, baby."

His hand is still around Jones', and when he squeezes it Jones can feel heat shoot up through his arm.

Jones feels hot and relieved and trapped all at once. "Why are you doing this?" he demands.

Thrax makes an absent sort of thoughtful noise, scanning the room as if looking for someone. "I hate seeing wasted potential," he says. "If you're going to do something, do it right, you know? Look at you." He lets go of Jones' hand, trails one finger up along his arm, his throat. "You're a wreck, doll. Who made you? Why are they letting you bang around like this?" He gives the room another scan. "Where are they?"

He's looking for Jones' parent virus.

"There isn't anyone else," Jones says. "I can take care of myself." He raises his chin challengingly. He expects Thrax to look amused, or angry. He doesn't expect Thrax to grab both his wrists, his eyes wide and his mouth a little slack. He's-- shocked?

"You're alone?" Thrax asks, and there's something disbelieving and more than a little horrified in his voice. "Your daddy just _left _you?"

This would not be the time to mention that Jones had killed the virus in question and left him to rot in a dank alley.

"Yeah," Jones says, and tries a smile. Some kind of strange, fierce sympathy comes over Thrax, and he draws Jones in, under his arm, holding him tight like a kid with a teddy bear. It's unnerving, but it feels _safe_ on a weird core level that Jones has never felt before. He's almost completely wrapped up and the heat is so comforting.

"How did he just make you and _leave_ you? We don't-- we never just..." Thrax sounds lost, almost plaintive. "We gotta take care of..." his hands are nearly painful around Jones, his sharp face digging into Jones' neck.

"He's dead," Jones says, and the sob that wrenches up from his throat is terrible and surprising and he isn't crying for that stupid unnamed unmourned virus, he's crying for Frank and Drix and Lea, for his old chief and the guys back at the station, for himself, for being so alone.

_He's all alone_, he thinks, and then Thrax presses a hot kiss into his shoulder and he realizes he's said it out loud.

"I got you, baby," Thrax rumbles in his ear, "You don't have to be alone no more, it's gonna be okay. I got you, and I'm gonna take care of you and set you up and you'll be just fine, baby, everything's gonna be fine."

Thrax's arms around him, he's so hot and he feels so safe. He's coming apart, crying in a crowded bar and the monster that took away his world is petting him and whispering in his ear. Telling him that everything's going to be fine.

Everything is going to be just fine.

***

By the time the poor kid stops crying Thrax has managed to bundle him up on his lap, enfolding him in a tight embrace and the thick (if somewhat smelly) coat of Echo, one of his temporary lackeys.

It's been a while since he's had any kids of his own, and he feels shaken by the rush of tenderness for this little guy, the rush of rage against a cruel world that would leave someone all helpless and cold and hungry and alone. New viruses are terrible at taking care of themselves (_They shouldn't _have_ to be taking care of themselves_, he thinks furiously) while they learn the ropes and Jones calms down almost as soon as he's warmed up properly. He looks like he might be meningitis, looks actually like he could be Thrax's own particular strain, one of his own boys, and it's kind of funny but mostly sad that Jones thought a thin white shirt and some tattered pants were going to cut it. Viruses that kill with heat don't do so well with cold-- it's no wonder the little guy is in such rough shape.

Echo and his twin are muttering and staring and maybe thinking about asking for the coat back, but Echo has terrible hygiene and his brother chews with his mouth open and really, he had been meaning to kill them soon anyway.

Jones makes a shaky little noise and rubs at his eyes, scanning the room, looking embarrassed and distrustful. He's a fighter, a trooper, and the hateful, wary suspicion glittering in his eyes is deeply tragic. The world isn't kind to viruses: a certain level of generalized belligerence is healthy. But he's so young, so small, and he shouldn't be this screwed up and paranoid. He shouldn't look confused at simple kindness. A new kid needs his daddy, needs to know that he is safe and special and adored, that he has a place in the world. Thrax probes for information, gently, keeping his tone light and gets the story piece by horrible piece.

It had been dark. He hadn't seen the virus's face. Didn't know his name. He'd been attacked, forced against the wall and infected. It had hurt, he had been scared. Then the virus had been gone.

Gone? Wasn't he dead?

Jones bites his lip, and his eyes dart all around the room. He's scared again. He must have been dead, he explains slowly, because otherwise wouldn't he be taking care of Jones? Why would he have left? Why would he have left Jones _all alone_, to make it on his own, if he hadn't been?

The hot rush of rage and protectiveness boils all through Thrax, and he curls up tighter around Jones. Thrax wants to find that virus and kill him all over again.

A virus couldn't go back to who they were before the change, and it can be hard to adjust (the rules are so different afterwards) and they're supposed to have _help_, supposed to have _someone_. And then it was supposed to be that that someone was more than happy to stick around: a virus couldn't help it, they just took one look at their new boy or girl, lying there all adorable and helpless, and they fell in love. It just wasn't natural for a virus to sire some kid and then waltz off.

Witness exhibit A, here, a broken wreck on Thrax's lap, clinging and frightened and angry, abandoned to sink or swim, abandoned to _drown._

You heard about predators like this, now and then, shifty deadbeats who got their kicks infecting cells and then leaving them to die or go mad, moving on without a blink or a backwards glance. Not _caring._

Not taking care, just _taking_.

What's so much worse is how much Jones looks like Thrax, how close his daddy must have been related, how maybe it was even one of Thrax's boys that turned him and then abandoned him. He'd thought he'd raised his kids proper. He thought-- he doesn't know what to think.

Thrax thinks,_ knows,_ if he ever finds the bastard that did this to his Jones, this poor precious little guy, he is going to take them apart piece by piece by piece, even if it is one of his own boys, he's gonna make them wish they'd died in that alley with Jones. It is going to be slow and horrible, and medical students are going to whisper about it in hushed, reverent tones.

He's going to enjoy it.

In the meantime, he's going to take this Jones in and treat him right. He's started to drift off to sleep on Thrax's lap, lulled by the warmth and probably the first feeling of safety he's ever had, and Thrax strokes his hair until he's out, letting him know it'll be okay, letting him know that he was going to be his new daddy, that he's going to be there when he wakes up.

Then he bundles Jones up and carries him out of the bar, heading for his nearest safehouse, leaving Echo and his brother and the bar in sweet, lovely flames behind him.

He's already thinking of lessons to teach, warm coats to buy, nucleic coding to alter, people to murder. Jones' face is tucked against his shoulder, his face sweet and relaxed in sleep, as fragile and precious and corruptible as a helix of DNA.

Thrax is going to do this right.


	2. Chapter 2

_To forget one's purpose is the commonest form of stupidity. _

--Friedrich Nietzsche

Thrax knows when Jones wakes up because there is an almighty crash from the pallet in the corner of the room. He turns from his work to see the kid flat against the wall, groping at himself for a weapon. He's searching his chest and arm, for where a shoulder holster would be, and Thrax realizes he must have been a cop once.

It's hard on cops, the transition. Hard at the best of times. It's no wonder that his little Jones is as broken as he is-- it's a wonder that he isn't completely mad.

As if realizing that he is no longer what he thought he was Jones blinks, hard, and scrubs his hand over his face.

"Thrax," he mumbles, then giggles hysterically.

"I'm here, babe," Thrax says, catching him as he starts to slide down the wall. He's so little-- small even for a cop. Young. He fists his hands in Thrax's coat and giggles.

"Man, I thought-- I thought---" he lets his head rest against Thrax's chest. "I dunno what I thought. This is so screwed up."

"Shh. It's all right." He pats Jones' head, enjoying the curve of it underneath his hand.

"You're gonna fix me," Jones says, and it's almost a question.

"Yeah." He draws Jones back on to the pallet. "Your--" doesn't want to say _daddy_, not anymore, "--_virus_, he didn't do so well. He didn't finish the job. You're not all the way there."

"Bastard." Jones says, and Thrax laughs, surprised and delighted at the curl of heat and anger still beating inside this guy. He's _fierce. _

"Yes." He presses Jones down against the pallet gently, so gently, trying not to spook him. Jones seems the kind of guy that would fight every step of the way, if pushed, and jump over a cliff, if led.

"What are you..."

"I'm going to make you all better," Thrax croons, and sets his claws into Jones' shirt. The material shreds without effort, peeling away in filmy curls.

"Oh man, what--" Jones gasps, and squirms. Thrax holds him down by his hips, all business, and peels every last piece of worn shirt off of him. "Thrax, what--"

"Mmm." Thrax murmurs, and brands a kiss into Jones' chest, where a gun holster would once have rested. Jones twitches underneath him, breath ragged and hands fisted in the sheets.

He's so, so new at this, and on his face is equal parts terror and desire and rage.

Thrax lets him go, rises neatly from the bed.

He's going have to ask for it, if he wants it. When he wants it. When he even knows what he wants.

"Now that rag's gone," he says, "You can put on something that suits you. You run with me, you gotta have some class, babe."

Jones gapes like a fish when he's presented with a thick, neatly wrapped package. Thrax raises one brow to say _Well?_ and Jones closes his mouth abruptly, but the crazed, dangerous look in his eyes recedes a little.

Jones opens the package and pulls the thick white sweater on without a word, and if his hands are shaking, they both pretend not to notice.

***

Thrax gives him a box, filled with more neat packages of clothes, and pushes him gently towards the tiny bathroom attached to their hideout. Thicker pants, tough shiny boots, a tight glossy jacket that hooks together around his waist, that doesn't hang right. He misses his cop jacket, but he's lost it a long time ago. He wonders if he can trade this one out for a parka or something, something with some give in it. He suspects that he can't, if Thrax has anything to do with it.

There's a mirror in the little room, dull and scratched, and he studies his reflection. He looks sharp: not just stylish, but fierce and dangerous.

(_"Next time I wanna be the bad cop," He tells his partner.  
_

_"You _are_ a bad cop," His partner tells him._)

He looks like a virus, like mafia: someone's hired muscle, a sleek and deadly hitman.

"Bad cop," He says to his reflection. The man in the mirror gives him a brittle, toothy smile that doesn't reach his acid-yellow eyes.

He turns away, and can almost pretend he's not hiding from his own face.  
He leaves the bathroom slowly, testing the give in his new outfit. It's not that restrictive, really, it just feels tight and a little claustrophobic because he's been wearing worn-through clothes for too long, ignoring holes in his knees and fraying on his cuffs. He feels secure, now, safer, and ashamed.

Thrax is lounging on the pallet, a cell's phone up to his face. Jones feels his hunger surge up inside of him at the sight of his long fingers, his mouth, going _yes please oh this one, please _and he braces himself on the door frame.

What the hell is he doing with himself?

He's surviving, he thinks. Killing Thrax won't take more than a couple minutes, but he's going to be a virus for the rest of his life. He needs--

(_"I'm going to fix you," Thrax says, and he wants it so bad_)

--needs help.

"Yes," Thrax drawls into the phone, then "Yes, yes, _n_o, Spider, come on, babes, you know I'm good for it."

The phone buzzes, and Thrax's face draws into a mask of fury. "Yes," He says, tightly. "Yes, I'll be there, you can count on it."

He takes the phone away from his face and drives his thumb through the off button, watching with wide, furious eyes as the device swells and bubbles and then pops, as the device leaks boiling oil down his wrist. Then the anger is gone like it's been switched off and Thrax flicks the oil off his hand, glances up at Jones.

"Show time, pretty baby." He says, and smiles a wicked smile. "We're gonna rob ourselves a bank."

***

Thrax has a sleek black motorbike waiting for him a block away from their hide-out, and it chills Jones more than a little. Just how entrenched is Thrax in this body, how long has he been here? Who does he know, what favors is he owed, does he owe, what exactly is Jones getting himself into?

"Are you gonna stare at it all day or are you gonna get on?" Thrax asks, swinging his leg over the bike. Jones startles, then carefully fits himself on the back seat.

Thrax is broad and hot against him, and when he starts the bike up it screams like a demon and Jones yells and grabs on to the big virus's coat for dear life. Thrax howls with laughter, and then they're off, all power and deadly motion.

The plan is explained as they speed along, towards the bank, weaving through traffic lanes like maniacs. Jones hangs on tight and tries not to die, tries to think of a way to say 'no' that Thrax will listen to.

The plan goes something like this: Thrax has a friend, and the friend has a thing that he has or a thing that he does, no, a thing that he knows, and Thrax needs this thing (done to him? done to Jones?), and the friend needs them to rob this bank. Then Thrax can go ahead and fix Jones (with this thing, however it works) and everyone will live happily ever after, except for the people in the bank that they are going to rob and maybe burn down.

A mutually satisfactory transaction.

"Except for the bank employees," Jones shouts over the roar of the wind and the bike. Thrax just laughs in that way Jones is rapidly becoming familiar with, the one that means 'you're cute when you're stupid'.

The bank is an information bank, an archive of Immunity intelligence reports. All the Immunity intelligence reports, ever, detailing every germ or bacteria or bug or allergen or virus that this body they're in has ever encountered. They're going to steal them for Thrax's friend.

The friend, Spider, is waiting for them in a dark alley a little ways away from the bank. He has bright blue eyes and sick yellow skin and long, long segmented fingers.

(_"Don't let him get too close without me around," Thrax shouts over the wind, "And we'll all get along all right,"_ )

"Enchante, yo," he tells Thrax, noisily kissing the air on either side of the virus's face, then peers at Jones. "This the kid? He's got your eyes."

"He came like that," Thrax says, "What do you think?"

Jone can't quite resist the urge to edge behind Thrax. Spider is one creepy motherfucker and he would gladly plant a hole between those horrible blue eyes if he could get over how much better it feels to have someone large and protective between him and the tall yellow virus

Thrax edges sideways enough for this Spider guy to take his face in his hands and there are too many fingers-- Jones vision blurs and his mind reels, trying to, wanting, needing to focus, understand what is happening to him. The hunger inside of him rises up like a flame in a draft, howling, and he clutches frantically at the hands on him and maybe whimpers a little. Just a little.

As quickly as the onslaught began it is over, strong red hands peeling him away and tucking him very firmly against Thrax's side. He clings, helplessly overstimulated, and tries to remember how to breathe. In, out. In, out. Thrax is very warm, and smells like heat and spices and other things that Jones would be very interested in licking. He's never noticed before, and now it's all he can think of. Possibly he whimpers again.

"Hard to say," Spider is telling Thrax when Jones manages to refocus. "You're related, but I think he's infected with just straight up baseline meningitis, and his default code is starting to screw with it big time. You said he used to be Immunity-- those dudes have one bitch of a defense system, you know how they come apart like cluster bombs when they're infected. You go in all freestyle, man, and this kid is going to be in a world of hurt, like for real, head-exploding kind of hurt."

"And you suggest...?" Thrax asks. His hand is curled protectively around Jones' neck, one hot thumb rubbing gently. It's distracting, to say the least, and Jones seriously considers the merits of whimpering some more.

Spider considers the both of them, shrugs, spreads his hands. "Best thing for him is to hang chill and wait 'till we get a full expression analysis set down, work with him then-- red light and we'll code something up custom, green light and you two can get your freak on regular-style."

"And you're telling me this honest, Spider?"

"Honest as the tapeworm is long, sugar daddy."

Thrax sighs, runs his free hand over his face. "All right, then. We're goin' in."

"I'm not--" Jones says, and Thrax gives him a casual shoulder-squeeze that makes him tingle all down to his core. "Um."

"What?" Thrax says.

"I can't," Jones says wretchedly. "I can't, I can't do this!"

"We need you," Thrax says implacably, "And you need this."

Spider grins, showing too many sharp teeth, and pulls a pen and a pad out from his jacket.

"Now, _Officer_, " he says, "Why don't you tell your uncle Spider how you bad boys lay those big ol' banks out."

Jones shrinks back against Thrax, but the sharp, stroking claws against his neck give him nowhere to hide.

***

There's an Immunity officer at the front desk when they sweep in, obviously dropping off a new case file. She's tall and thin and is joking with the teller at the desk, looking like she's having a good time.

She drops the file when she sees them and goes for her gun but she's not quick enough, and Thrax is on her in a flash, his scythe-like claw spearing through her gun and his other hand ready to tear her apart.

"No!" Jones shouts, and latches on to Thrax's raised hand, digging in his claws. "Don't kill her!"

Thrax growls low in his throat, shakes Jones to the floor.

"And _why_ shouldn't I, doll?" He demands.

"She's an Immunity," Jones says, thinking fast, his eyes locked on to the girl. "She's more use as a hostage."

Thrax stares at him for a long moment, then chuckles. "How sweet. She's yours."

Jones barely manages to get to his feet to catch her as Thrax pushes her away, prowls onwards. Her eyes are wide and dark, and she looks like she's thinking of fighting. He holds on to her wrists as gently as he can, ties her hands in front of her with a strip of her shirt. She could wriggle out of it, but it would take her a bit of work.

"Just cooperate, girl," Jones whispers, "and we'll all make it outta here alive."

She glares.

"Time's wasting, lover," Spider calls.

Jones drags the girl after his two partners in crime. When he pulls level Spider takes one look at the girl and stops walking, neatly plucking the girl away from Jones with two long fingers around her throat.

"Nice catch," Spider says approvingly, and slowly squeezes. She gasps, shuddering all over, and he chuckles, leaning in, pressing her back against the wall and she chokes and thrashes. Jones' mouth has gone dry, and he thinks he should do, he doesn't know, he should do something but he can't think of what. Spider's so close he can feel the wet heat radiating from his yellow skin, can see the immunity girl bead with moisture as she struggles.

"Man," he manages to say, "Spider," and he puts his hand on Spider's arm. The contact thrills through him like a siren but Spider only laughs again, sending another thrill down Jones' spine, and pulls him up flush against him. The girl is still squirming, and panting now, her lush mouth close enough to kiss--

"Stop that," Thrax says, appearing suddenly. Jones jolts away from Spider and the girl both.

"_Thrax_," Spider whines.

"We're in the middle of a heist, Spider," Thrax says, "_Your_ heist. Get moving."

"Motherfuck, but you're a tight ass," Spider grumbles, but he drops the girl on her butt and slouches off down the hall, following their plan.

"Keep it together, Jones," Thrax says to him, and brushes his cheek. Jones sways and takes a step towards him without meaning to, longing for him, for this nightmare to be over, for something. Thrax smiles a little, and strides off after Spider.

Jones stands there for what feels like a long while, pulling himself back together. It's getting harder every time. He wants to descend on that girl like a locust, pin her up against the wall like Spider did and go farther, make her _scream. _He wants to run after Spider and fall at his feet, beg for whatever it was he was going to do to her, he wants that too. He's not _done_ enough for the viruses, but he's so far gone for a cell. He stands trembling for a long time, just trying to breathe, trying to work through the storm inside of him. When he's fought down the hot wash of need and aching hunger he turns, kneels down by the immunity girl. She's still in a pile from where Spider had dropped her, her eyes unfocused and shocky.

"You all right?" He asks.

The girl trembles when Jones touches her, but she pulls herself back together quickly enough to get an elbow in his chest as he hauls her up to her feet.

"Guess I deserve that." He mutters.

"You deserve_ more_ than that," The girl growls at him, her voice low and fierce, "and you're gonna _get_ it when I get free."

"Okay, look, I'm sorry," Jones snaps, "but you could be a little nicer. Could I get a '_thanks for not __letting your crazy partner kill me_' up in here? Huh? Maybe?"

She glares at him for another long moment, and then it fades into something more thoughtful.

"Thank you." She says slowly.

He smiles at her before he can help himself, then looks away. "Nah, I'm sorry. It's cool."

"You..." She says. He looks back sharply. She's biting her lower lip, her head turned to one side.

"Me what?" He demands suspiciously.

"You weren't always a virus," She says. She's thoughtful, calculating. "You're not like them, I can see it in you."

Jones opens his mouth but a flip answer won't come. He just feels hungry and hot and shaky. And angry. He takes a step back from her, shrugs.

"We'd better catch up with them," He says. Shows his teeth in a smile that's more of a grimace. "Can't keep the boss-man waiting. Boss-_men_."

She follows him for a while, then says, "He's not your boss, is he?"

"Which one?" he tries to joke.

"Either of them." She says, touches his arm.

"No," he says. Stops walking.

"You're a hostage too," She says suddenly. He spins, startling her, and grabs the binding on her wrists as she flinches back. He cuts through the material with one savage jerk.

"What?" She stammers. He puts a hand on her shoulder, pushes her back.

"I'll tell them you got loose," He tells her. "You escaped. Get out of here."

"But--"

"Go on!" He pushes her again, furious.

She doesn't go. She take a step forward, catches his hand and peers up at him. "What were you? I mean-- who were you?"

"I used to be a cop," Jones says. He can't meet her eyes, can only stare at their hands, her hand in his, at his dark red claws.

"What happened?" She asks.

(_Burning, everything's so hot, panic in the streets but he holds on to the steering wheel, a man on a __mission, he's going to save the world._)

"I wasn't good enough," Jones says. "I wasn't fast enough, strong enough, and I failed, and everything burned and burned and _burned_---" He breaks off, reigns in his hysteria. "And all I had left was finding the man who _did_ it, and _stopping_ them, and I couldn't even do that the first time so I needed to be better. I didn't think it would be like this. I didn't _mean_ for it to be like this."

She looks sad.

"What's your name?" She asks. "Is it really Jones?"

"Osmosis," He says, and the word feels foreign and strange in his mouth. "It was Osmosis Jones."

"Osmosis," She says, and squeezes his hand. "We can help you, Osmosis. The Immunities, we-- we take care of our own. All of our own. We got a virus protection program. We could get you away from here, give you a new life. You could-- can still do good work."

Jones lets her go, takes a step back. His head is spinning-- it sounds too good to be true. Too good to be for him.

Who would he be if he could stop? What would even be left of him?

(_"Jones," Lea says, "What are you going to do--" and he kisses her because she's gorgeous and he loves her and he's going to save the day and she'll love him back and then he tucks himself into Drix's arm cannon, a man on a mission--_)

"I don't have anyone left," Jones says helplessly. "Just Thrax."

"You got me," She says. She takes a step forward and hugs him, soft and cool. "I can take of you."

He hugs her back and she's this pale lovely miracle in his arms, and it feels like maybe everything could be okay.


	3. Chapter 3

_  
Out of life's school of war: that which does not destroy me makes me stronger. _

--Friedrich Nietzsche.

Thrax lets Spider into the Central Data Core's room with his claw, and spares a glance behind him. They've gotten to their goal in record time thanks to Jones' info, but alarms are sounding all over the building and if they don't get out of here soon they're going to find themselves surrounded. He flexes and relaxes his killer claw as he tries to be patient, tries to hear Jones coming down the hall after him. He knows that he and Spider can take care of themselves in a fight, but Jones is so new, so raw.

And he used to be a cop.

Thrax shouldn't have left him with that girl, he thinks. _Hostage_ is just another word for _liability_, when it came to heists. When it came to viruses. Use it or lose it, really.

(_Jones' hands shake as he holds the pen, draws the map, and Thrax tells himself it's just nerves, the kid will be fine, just fine--_)

And he was going to do this _right_. Already everything's coming apart on him...

Jones still isn't coming. He strains for any sound, takes a few steps back along the corridor. He wishes he still had his old chain of hypothalamus beads, but he'd lost it a while back in a fight, some near-miss cock-up with a suicidal Immunity, and Thrax hasn't killed enough people since to have a chain. Just a tight cuff around one wrist. He picks at it fitfully, the beads glittering and flaring as he prods them, but the motion doesn't do anything to dispel his nervousness.

Where _i_s Jones?

"Uh, can I get some backup over here?" Spider demands from behind him. "I'm only disengaging the command module, sweet stuff, no big deal!"

He retreats back to Spider's side, all senses straining for any sign of his boy. The yellow virus makes a satisfied noise and pats his ass, absently, as he pries the Data Core free one tiny strand at a time.

He's going to kill Spider after this. He's going to pin Spider to the floor with his boot and rip out each and every finger. Thrax picks his teeth with his claw and goes over this thought slowly, lingering. He's going to pull off each finger and then he's going to prick his eyes, just lightly, and let the sweet killing fire burn through Spider's head slowly, slow enough that he can _beg_--

"And we're _done_, man!" Spider crows, hefting the Data Core in his arms like it's a baby. On close examination, it_ is_ a baby, a tiny white body with a huge head and one glowing eye that fades from white to sky blue as it writhes in Spider's hands. It makes a vague chirpy noise and waves chubby little fists at them. Spider deftly twists the frayed, trailing strands of its umbilicus into one thick knot and then props it up against his shoulder, cooing.

"I thought it would be bigger," Thrax comments doubtfully.

"New branch office, new furnishings," Spider murmurs, gently patting at the baby. "You know how it is, man, you get 'em when they're young and adorable, yes you are, yes it's you, you're adorable!" His grin is the soppy, half-disbelieving grin of any new daddy, feeling the first heady rush of paternal affection.

(_When Thrax was young he once thought it would be funny to scare a little cell girl who got lost in the park. Only, after he's changed her she looks up and takes his hand in her little bitty claws and suddenly it's not funny anymore. Suddenly, he loves her._)

"He's tiny," Thrax says spitefully. "I prefer mine walking, at least."

"He's _darling_," Spider bristles, then nuzzles his face blissfully into the little white creature's cheek. "_Aren't_ you? Aren't you the sweetest little Data Core? Aren't you? Who's my boy? Oh my fucking shit, he smells so good. Thrax, check it-- who's my little Data Boy? Who is? Is it you? _Yes! _Hey, you wanna hold him?"

Thrax growls, and raises his glowing claw. Spider makes a sour face at him, jiggles the Data Core."Suit yourself, Big Daddy," he says, and strolls off down the corridor. "Come on, let's bounce. Awww, isn't that right? Isn't that right? Who's my little boy? Who's gonna bounce? _We_ are!"

(_His last kid called him 'daddio' and made him laugh. The kid before that only spoke Spanish, a tall and formal girl who called him 'patron' and cried sometimes at night but she liked it when he took her dancing...) _

Thrax digs his claw savagely into the gutted, empty Central Data Core chamber. It bursts into flames instantly, the fibers twisting and popping and licking fire across his face. He takes a deep, superheated breath of flame and smoke, lets it run across his teeth, and feels a little better. He and Spider will meet up later, a warehouse across the city. It's better to leave separately-- less of a profile for the cops, and if Spider screws with his Jones one more time he is going to take the yellow virus's head clean off, intricate torture plans or no.

_(Poor Jones doesn't want to call him anything at all, something shattered and untrusting held close behind his eyes, and he doesn't know if he'll ever--_)

He turns and strides off purposefully, looking for his baby.

***

"It's okay," Jones' police girl says, coaxing him, tugging him gently outside into the light.

They're surrounded by police, the building surrounded in a thick cordon of cars and flashing lights and barricades and Immunities with big heavy guns and he feels a thick rope of fear knot up inside him. Those guns would hurt him now, rip into his tough inflexible skin and _hurt._

(_He aims, fires, the gun in his hand kicking back and the target on the range blowing apart, sizzling and he laughs and laughs and--_)

He's so tired of hurting.

"I'm scared," he says.

"It's okay," his girl says again, and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

Jones takes a step forward, then another, then lets the girl bring him step by unsteady step into the ranks of the Immunities. The outfits are a little different and he doesn't recognize the faces but it feels almost like being home.

Like being safe.

The cool blue glow of uniforms and porous membranes, the crisp official smells of plasma guns and shoe shine and hard work, the shift and flow as they circle and size him up: if he doesn't look at his reflection in their eyes he can almost pretend that he's one of them. He closes his eyes and thinks_ Yes_, thinks _I can do this_. Thinks _Frank--_

"Cuff him," His girl says.

"What?" He asks, before strong arms grab him, before he's kicked roughly to his knees. "What? Please--"

His girl moves in front of him, kneels down. They're face to face, close enough to kiss but her eyes are flat and glittering, her face cold and closed off and a little disgusted. A little pitying.

"Girl, what's going on?" He asks, "I already surrendered."

He feels stupid, bewildered.

Betrayed.

"It's for your own good," she says. Someone has given her a gun. The fear in him flares up, twining with the hunger and he moans like an animal, trying to struggle back to his feet. The cops holding his arms shove him back down to his knees.

She puts the gun up against his forehead.

"Stop, put that down! What are you doing?" He begs.

"Mercy kill," she says, and for a moment the pity wins out over the disgust. "I'm putting you out of your misery."

"Please," he says, and his voice cracks. There's nothing else he can say.

"Goodbye, Osmosis," she says.

She pulls the trigger.

***

Thrax finds cops before he goes too far, and pulls up short. They're an armed strike team, big cells, almost as big as him and bristling with weapons and thick black armor. They all draw on him with choreographed precision as soon as they see him.

Thrax puts his hands up and, as an afterthought, retracts his killer claw.

There is a tense silence.

"Stand down, virus," The lead cell says. "We are arresting you on the authority of Cyndi Police Department on suspicion of aiding and abetting the known terrorist Spider T. Pallidum. Anything you say can and will be used against you--"

"Y'all seen my man Jones?" Thrax interrupts. "Looks like me only cuter? Y'all _hurt_ him?" He flexes his claw back out, letting it spark and glow. "I'd be a little upset if anyone _hurt_ him."

The assembled police shift uneasily. A guy in the back hisses, "Isn't that-- didn't whatserface, the new girl--"

"Shut up!" The spokesman in the front hisses back, then refocuses on Thrax. "Your junior associate has been apprehended," he says firmly. "Come quietly and we'll see what we can do to get you two in contact."

"I don't _think_ so." Thrax says. It's only a half step forward before he's close enough to sink his claw through the cell's face and he makes it before the rest of the team can blink. One man down, he spins in a tight roundhouse kick, taking down the next cell in line and the guy behind him, his coat flaring out and up around him, obscuring his silhouette as the assembled guns begin to bark and fire, filling the air with noise and an acrid tang. A bullet catches him across the forearm and he shouts with pain, clutching it in his free hand, wielding his claw like a scythe to cut open two cells at once, and the final cell through his neck on the backswing.

The sound and fury is over as suddenly as it begins, as there are no more cells left to shoot. He catches his breath and watches the fire consume their bodies, then checks his arm. The bullet track is has gouged a deep, cauterized furrow between his elbow and wrist, and it aches sullenly as he flexes his hand. It's nothing incapacitating.

"You fight fire with fire," he says to the charred corpses around him, and grins mirthlessly.

_The new girl_, the strike team cell had said. Now she has his Jones. Her blue fingers on his skin, her pretty eyes looking at him, her pretty mouth,_ lying_ to him--

(_"I can't do this," Jones begs him, and he sounds so afraid. Why hadn't Thrax ever asked about just how recently Jones had been turned?_)

He is running, racing down the hallways, dragging a whirlwind of fire after him: a twisting, flaring inferno of rage. There's a low hissing growl coming from his throat as he retraces the twists and turns of this warren he had followed Spider into, leaving his boy, his baby, his responsibility, leaving him to some girl, some _cop,_ some _girl_. Jones used to be a cop, it's clear in every broken line of him, how had Thrax ever thought he would be okay left with temptation like that dangling so sweet in front of him, as pretty as poison?

He's going to kill Spider for doing this to him, doing this to _them_, all probing fingers and glib smile. Being cute and clever and charming, making Thrax want to do him favors. Making him think everything was gonna be okay. Thrax's gonna kill him. He's gonna kill _everyone._

Thrax bursts through the front doors, red flames snapping and howling around him, taking the building apart as he takes one step, two, into the thick cordon of Immunities. Guns bark and pop around him, tearing chunks out of his coat, his arms, his body as he wades forward into the crowd: elbow-deep, claw flashing, cop cars going off like firecrackers, cops screaming and howling in the heat and the fire and the rage of him.

(_That tattered little figure crouched on the barstool, bent over like a hunting hawk with a broken wing: something made more dangerous by its pain, something determined to go down fighting--_)

If his Jones has been hurt, if his baby's been broken any more than he already is, he's gonna kill the whole world.

"Jones!" He shouts. "Jones, boy, where are you!?"

No one answers, and he can't hear anything over the fire and the guns and the cops screaming.

(_That fear in his eyes when Thrax sat down, that gorgeous seething anger--_)

"_Jones!_" He roars.

And then he sees him.

The world goes white.

***

Spider is working on hooking his new Data Core up to the existent data processing systems already assembled in his base, braiding the cords of monitors and interface panels and coolant systems and nutrient feeds into the Data Core's shredded umbilicus. He hums as he works, and tickles the Data Core's little feet as it kicks. He is totally, really, this time for true in love.

A shadow falls across his workstation, and he freezes. His base is embedded deep within a cancerous tumor, wrapped in layers of failsafes and deadlocks.

No one should be in here.

He reaches and picks up his soldering tool casually, still humming, then whips around with it in a brutal arc, the tip sparking blue-white and lethal.

Thrax catches the tool firmly before it makes it halfway to his face, then kicks Spider to the ground and kneels on his throat. Spider thrashes, reflexively, and then that long glowing claw comes up in front of his face and he freezes.

Spider makes it his business to know things, and he knows what that claw can do. Exactly what that claw can do.

"Thrax, buddy," he smiles, pouring on the charm. "What can I do you for?"

Thrax snarls above him like a wildcat and digs the claw into the floor by Spider's head, letting him feel the heat. He's tense, almost frantic, breathing hard, wound to his breaking point with rage and fear and pain. The body he has tucked up against his chest, wrapped in his coat, is very still. The big virus's eyes glitter with murder.

It's sexy. It's_ really_ sexy, but also really scary. Spider contemplates the fact of his increasingly imminent death.

"Buddy?" He ventures, still smiling. "Baby? Sweetheart? Come on, talk to me."

"_Spider_," Thrax hisses, low and grating, as if he has only just remembered how to talk.

"Yeah, that's me, Thrax." Spider says, encouraged.

"Spider, I have a-- _problem_," Thrax hisses, and his voice breaks a little on the last word. "I think you want to _help_ me with this problem."

The body. He can see just a sliver of skin, peeking out from Thrax's bundled coat, and the skin is a familiar dull red.

"Jones," he says. "Oh."

"Yes. _Oh_." Thrax hisses. The claw digging into the floor by Spider's head flares white.

"Is he--"

"He's not dead!" Thrax barks, eyes going crazy for a moment, and then reigns himself back in.

"He's-- he's hurt bad, Spider," he says tightly, and backs off of him. "Not as bad as _you're_ going to be, if you can't fix him." Pulling Spider to his feet, that killer claw sizzling against Spider's jacket, Thrax growls, "No one's _ever_ been as hurt as you're gonna be."

"Okay, okay, _jeez_," Spider says, and eels out of Thrax's grip. Away from that dangerous claw. He quickly tucks the Data Core back in its protective cradle hanging from the ceiling and brushes the remaining wires and equipment off the work table.

He puts down a sheet.

"Lay the kid here," he says.

Thrax does so, unwrapping him like the world's most horrible birthday present. Then he hovers, snarling at Spider when the yellow virus tries to shoo him back.

Jones is limp and small on the white sheet, under the harsh bright lighting Spider uses to work on his projects. His pretty mouth is slack, his eyes are closed-- he doesn't respond when Spider peels back an eyelid. His pupils don't dilate. Under a crude bandage made of an Immunity's shirt, he has a small neat hole burned into his forehead, like a horrible third eye, and a much larger, messier hole out the back. The holes leak black plasma steadily over Spider's fingers.

He's breathing-- shallowly, impossibly slowly, but there's still some part of him clinging to life.

Spider grins. "We can save him."

Spider kicks into a blur of motion, laying out scalpels, screwdrivers, wires, tubs of oil and plasma and glue, a protein dripline, two different power generators --electric and thermal-- and the cradle with the Data Core. He starts splicing wires together, taping them down, plugging them in.

"We can fix this," he says, "I just have to hook him up to an energy source, catalyze it-- dangerous work, man, really fiddly, but you took your boy to the right man. I'll have him up and running like a skinned cat at a dog convention--"

"And what do _I_ do?" Thrax asks, looming suspiciously over Spider's shoulder. He reaches a big clawed hand out and cards through the hank of wires Spider's braiding together, making them tangle and spark. Jones twitches like a landed fish.

"You can get me some headlight fluid." Spider snaps, elbowing him away.

"Headlight fluid," Thrax repeats. "What for?"

"It'll get you out of my hair," Spider mutters.

"What?"

"It'll help Jonesey here breath fresh air," Spider says, much louder. "Headlight fluid-- it's the gunk in his head, helps him see what he's doing. Powerful stuff. I need it to fix that hole there."

Thrax nods, the suspicion fading to a resolute determination, and he shrugs his stained coat back on. He looks bigger with the coat on, more dangerous, a nightmare beast, but then he leans over Jones' still form and brushes his cheek with his thumb, so, so gently.

"Back soon, baby," he says, and hesitates once more. Then with a sharp warning glare at Spider and a dark swirl of his coat he is gone.

Spider breaths a sigh of relief.

"Fucking finally," he says.

Then he gets to work.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: this is the chapter that earns the fic the 'M' rating. Be warned!_

OOO

_There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. _

– Friedrich Nietzsche.

Jones wakes abruptly, every nerve screaming. His first impression is _power_: bright, painful, electric power flooding every particle of his body, lashing in blue-white whips through the air. He screams from the pain of it, arching up, the power flooding through him, the power flooding through the scream, all of his world saturated in this throbbing overflow.

Then it clicks off, sharp as a snap of fingers, and Jones goes limp. Details, new information, _comprehension_ leaks into his mind slow as tar. He's restrained, locked at the wrists to a thickly padded surface. The air is warm. He's hungry, still hungry. His head feels heavy, crammed full of something thick and alien.

He has wires taped to him, to his arms and chest and head, embedded into his flesh. He has a thick cable down his throat, can feel it shift inside of him as he breaths around it. He moans, and the sound has weird harmonics.

"You're awake," someone says.

"Nngh," he says.

The someone looms over him, strokes his cheek. "Hey, gorgeous," they say.

_Spider_, something in his head supplies.

_You like Spider. _

"Sssngh," he says. The cable inside him shifts and pulses, bleeding heat into his stomach.

"That's me," Spider agrees. "You took some damage, Jonesy, sweet thing. Got your daddy real worried. _Daddies_." The virus moves closer, presses his mouth against Jones' jaw and Jones trembles at the pulse of heat that goes all through him.

"We're gonna fix you up, Jonesy," Spider whispers.

Jones squirms, trying to bring the cable out of his throat, trying to get his hands out of the restraints. Spider laughs, low and sweet, and traces Jones' mouth, stretched around the thick cable.

"Like it?" he asks, pulls it a little ways out, just enough to jar it inside him. Jones moans, feeling it slide and scrape at him, and Spider presses a kiss to Jones' chest.

"I'm gonna do bad things to you, Jonesy," he sing-songs, and presses the cable back down, in, even farther than before, making Jones thrash, making him choke and squirm. "Bad things, and you're going to _like_ 'em, and you're gonna _beg_ me for more." The cable pulses harder, pressing farther, and Jones can feel it pressing down inside him, burning. He can feel things shifting, inside him, locking and twisting together, can feel himself changing, the hunger he has lived with for so long yawning open inside him like a pit. The cable is pumping inside of him, spilling out into that endless void, feeding him just enough to keep him starving for it. It aches so _nicely_, and he pants helplessly around the cable.

Spider straddles his waist and he moans, all fricatives and static.

"Don't be like that, sugar," Spider murmurs, his long fingers dancing over the wires and cords, twisting some in farther, pulling some out. He snaps his fingers and another jolt of white power snaps through Jones. "We're calibrating, that's all. Figuring you out, see?" Another snap, another jolt. Jones thrashes his head back and forth, straining for air, the cable hot and heavy against his tongue. Spider wraps his hands around Jones' neck, holding him steady as the pain rips through him, twining with the hunger like birds in flight. He needs more than Spider's hands around his neck, his warm weight across his hips, he needs_ substance_. He would sink his teeth into Spider's arms if he could just reach, if the cable wasn't keeping his mouth locked open. He would eat Spider alive.

"We're figuring out how to make you _take_ what you _need_," Spider hums, and wrenches the cable out of Jones in one long, wet pull. It spatters thick, sweet black liquid across Jones' face, down his chest.

"I need more," Jones gasps. His voice holds strange harmonics, a staticy echo, and his mouth is wet, full of the dark liquid. He swallows it down, painfully, and rubs up against Spider. "What you're doing to me," he begs, "Please, _more_."

"That's my boy," Spider tells him, and puts his hands on either side of Jones' face.

Whatever Spider's going to do next is a mystery, because as Jones arches eagerly up into his touch there is a flare of red heat, and a long, curving golden claw protrudes from Spider's forehead. Spider doesn't even have time to scream before his face comes apart in a blaze of smoke and flame.

Thrax, tall and dark and terrible, tosses the burning corpse off the table with a furious flick of his wrist.

"You're _my _boy," Thrax says, and leans down over Jones. "_Mine_."

Jones whimpers.

OOO

Thrax lets his hands skitter wildly over Jones' restraints, the wires sunk under his skin. Jones is breathing quickly, shallowly, his mouth dark with something thick and sweet-smelling that makes Thrax feel dizzy, something that makes his head pulse with lust. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Spider's done something to him, but it's beyond Thrax --probably beyond anyone-- to say _what_. Spider was a complete asshole, sure, but he was a genius too.

"Thrax," Jones moans, and the sound goes straight through him like a hot scalpel. "Thrax, man, come on, I'm gonna explode. I need--"

"It's okay, baby," Thrax says, gritting his teeth, "just hang on, I'm gonna get you out of here."

"No, please, just-- just, I don't know, help me, give me something, come _on_."

"I can't," Thrax starts to say in his firmest tone, and Jones twists his hips up and _whines, _high and delirious, and Thrax sways forward despite himself. He _wants_ Jones, wants to reach into him and let himself be devoured. The black scent twines around them both, shining in Jones' mouth.

"_Please_, don't you _want _to, don't you want me--"

"The Immunities followed me here," Thrax hisses, shoving him flat. "We've got half a minute before we are up to our _necks_ in blue shirts and plasma fire. Calm _down!_"

"Oh," Jones says faintly, and subsides a little. Licks his lips, and it's so obscene Thrax can't _breathe_. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"My wrists, the restraints," Jones manages. He swallows hard, a wet, terrible noise. "I think it-- I think they latch."

Thrax leans over him, fumbling with the thick cuffs. The latches are complicated, mechanical, and when Jones trembles beneath him and chokes back a sob Thrax grits his teeth and slices the material open, throwing the burning pieces away from the table before they can burn Jones' wrists.

When he draws back Jones has his eyes tightly closed, his head tipped to the side, his chest heaving, and he looks so vulnerable. So brave. It makes Thrax feel helpless and terrible and angry.

He wishes he could kill Spider again. But Jones is alive, however fucked-up he's gotten -- however much _more_ fucked up-- and for that Thrax supposes Spider has served his purpose.

"The Data Core," Jones says, and it's enough of a nonsequiter that Thrax is startled out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"The Data Core," Jones says, "It's in my head, I can hear--"

The door to the workroom gives a thump. They both startle. The door thumps again, then again, setting up the pounding rhythm of a very determined police force. The material of the door starts to buckle.

"The wires, how do I pull them out--"

"You just pull them--"

"It's going to hurt you--"

"Just do it!"

Thrax tugs halfheartedly on one wire and then at Jones' flinch, he lights up his claw and slices frantically through the wires a handsbreadth out from his skin. They spark and pop and Jones _screams_, thrashing wildly on the table.

The door buckles, and the Police pour into the room like a tide of blue death.

"You can't have him!" Thrax roars, spreading his arms wide over Jones' small, shuddering form.

Jones hauls himself upright, and leans under Thrax's outstretched arm. He grits his teeth and a third eye nictates open in the center of his forehead, electric white. A lash of power like lightning shoots out from it and all the attackers' heads explode.

"Ow," Jones says, and clings to Thrax's side.

"Uh," Thrax says. "That's... new."

"Yeah," Jones says shakily, and passes out.

The third eye doesn't close. It looks at Thrax.

"His condition is approaching critical," it says with Jones' mouth. It's really creepy, and Thrax _knows_ creepy.

"I know, babe."

The eye strobes, and Jones' body begins to disengage the wires from his torso with precise, mechanical movements. Black plasma leaks out of the little holes.

"This will require medical adhesive," it says. Its voice is flat and weirdly pitched, almost humming. The eye tracks up to look at Thrax again, and he finds himself backing up.

"Will you procure medical adhesive?" it asks.

"Give me Jones back," Thrax says.

The eye strobes again.

"He will be in pain," it says, still in that freaky, humming voice. "This is not a state conducive to a successful escape, which I estimate you and he will be required to make shortly."

"Give him back," Thrax says, and lights his claw up, "and don't come out again. Or I'll end you."

"You will procure medical adhesive?" it asks again.

"I'll take care of my boy," Thrax says fiercely, "by _any _means necessary."

The eye lingers on him for long enough that Thrax gets the impression that it-- he?-- is unimpressed and unintimidated, then closes.

Jones' hands fall limp.

"Thrax," he rasps.

"Jones?" Thrax asks, and cups his head in his hands, afraid of the answer.

"Gimme some bandaids," Jones mumbles, his normal eyes fluttering open, "and then, for the love of _Frank_,please fix me."

Thax freezes.

"_'Frank,'_" he quotes.

Jones' eyes squeeze shut. "Shit."

"I knew a guy named Frank," Thrax says. He feels numb inside, frozen, and Jones is holding so _still_. "He was a big guy. Easy. Didn't take much care of himself. My first 72-hour kill. And there was this one cop..._Osmosis_, I think his name was. Not a common name, for a cop. Sticks in the mind. Osmosis _Jones_."

Jones tips his head a little to the side, his mouth in a flat, unhappy line. Not denying it.

"_You_ used to be a cop," Thrax says, and takes a step forward. Traces the line of a gun holster up Jones' chest in sweet, black fluid.

"What were you doing in that bar I found you in?" he asks. He doesn't want an answer, but something in him just goes colder when Jones doesn't give him one.

"Please," Jones only says, and catches his wrist.

"Please?" Thrax asks.

"It's been a really bad day," Jones whispers. "If you're gonna kill me... can you do it fast?"

Thrax feels so cold inside.

Jones opens his eyes, looks up at him, and they're yellow and flat and angry, virus eyes, but in them Thrax can see this traitorous flicker of sadness, this alien regret.

Thrax feels like, for just this one moment, he's looking at the cop Jones used to be: a man that wanted to make the world a better place to live in, a good man who's been broken and put back together too many times for any part of himself to fit and now the edges tear and scrape at him and he's so tired of hurting that the prospect of his own death is almost a relief. A person hanging on by his bloody fingers to the edge of the abyss.

Thrax wants to burn that person up, tear him out of those pretty yellow eyes until all that Thrax can see is his own reflection.

"I'm gonna kill you on my own time, _Osmosis_ Jones," Thrax says slowly, "And you'll feel so much better afterwards."

Jones whimpers again, a wordless pleading noise, and launches himself off the table. He and Thrax go down in a tangle of limbs and cords, and roll until Jones is on top.

He bends over Thrax, that sweet black fluid dripping out of his wire-wounds like rain, that sweet black in his mouth, and he's kissing Thrax everywhere.

The scent of it, of whatever Spider has done to him, rises around them and Thrax shudders with lust, catching Jones' slick mouth and sucking at his tongue. Jones snarls, a wild awful sound with too many harmonics, a sound like static and anger and pain and desire and he presses savage bites to Thrax's face, his neck, like he's looking for weakness. Thrax lets him, drowning in the sharp pressure and the heat, clawing at the remains of Jones' pants, at his own shirt.

(--_they're on this eyelash, fighting, and Jones, Osmosis, dodges his killing strike and reaches for the chain,his precious string of trophies and it stretches out for this long endless moment and then it snaps, the beads sparkling as they all fall down--_)

It isn't pretty, what they're doing, and it's nowhere as slow and gentle as Thrax meant to go. He can feel himself losing control, coming to pieces under Jones' relentless assault. He's got that ancient urge uncoiling in his gut, strands of RNA inside him coming together all hot and restless. He's wearing too many layers and they feel like cages, like they're choking him. He needs desperately to interface, to feel Jones' hot flesh against his own. He wants Jones and he wants him now, and when Jones grinds relentlessly down against his hardening cock he tips his head back and howls, his claws scoring deep rents in the floor.

"Give me--" Jones growls, sucking on his throat, grinding in his lap, "kill me-" and it hits Thrax like a slap that the boy doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, that this is all, still, Thrax's show.

"Get off," he snaps, shoving the boy up, off of him, and his skin reels at the loss of contact but this isn't some juvenile fumble, some fling, this is for _real_, and he swore he was going to do it right.

Jones snarls, sprawled across the floor, his eyes glassy, his hips twitching. Thrax hauls him to his feet, holds on to his face and kisses him deep and sweet, ignoring the tingling distraction of Spider's poison. He kisses him properly, like his own daddy taught him to: an interface, an intimate exchange of the secret language of the _self_, something more and deeper and hotter than lust. When he pulls back Jones blinks, dazed, and touches his mouth.

"Oh," he says, high and lost, and sways in Thrax's arms.

"Wasn't like that before, was it?" Thrax murmurs.

Jones tries to shake his head. "He just-- he just-- he bit--" and he flails his arm a little. There's no scar there, but then, there wouldn't be. "I didn't--"

"Shut up," Thrax says, decisively, and kisses him again until he does. Kisses him until he moans into Thrax's mouth, sways against him.

His chest heaves against Thrax's hands, the wounds in his skin still pulsing out that black fluid. When Thrax wipes at them with his thumb Jones hisses, kicks. Thrax takes him by his neck and spins the boy around while he's still disoriented and shoves him up against the table, bending him over it, savoring the tight, clean lines of his back, his ass.

"Come on," Jones growls, and tries to grind back. "Come on, come _on! _I _want _you_._"

(_Osmosis looks at him as the hypothalmus bead gutters and dies in his soft blue hands, looks up at him and in his wet, dark cell-eyes there is this spark of hate and it is so pure, so gorgeous--_)

"Shut up," Thrax says again, leaning to whisper against his shoulder, brushing his fingers lightly down the boy's spine. "Course you do, baby."

He strokes down the curve of Jones' ass, careful of his claws, mild as milk. Jones shudders beneath him, moans with too much reverb. It echoes in the small room, pulsing through them both. Thrax digs his claws into his flesh instinctively, panting harsh and a little desperate. His body wants Jones, longs to tear him apart, his cock hard and more than ready. Hot drops of coding pearl the end, sizzle when they hit the floor. He's going to fill Jones up, fix him proper, rewrite his every thought and desire and molecule, change the boy until it's just _him_ inside, only him forever.

Jones bucks when Thrax presses into him, hands fisted against the table. Thrax takes his time, grits his teeth, takes it slow. Jones is cooler than he is inside, as blissfully cool as water in the desert, like air after being strangled. Thrax doesn't want to rush, to burn him, doesn't want to lose himself and hurt his boy. He'll heat him up slow, make him want it, make him _need _to burn. Jones is trapped between Thrax and the table, anyway, his hips pinned in place, and he doesn't seem to know which way to twist. He shudders all around Thrax's cock and the sensation dances up Thrax's flesh, into his core, making him pant and move maybe just a little faster, slide just a little looser.

(_somewhere in the past he spreads his black wings and flies away, into the cold, so long ago_)

"Jones," he says, warningly, and then loses it when Jones grinds back _hard_, impaling himself.

Thrax moans, the rough sound wrenched out of him by the blissfully tight pressure of the little virus around him, around his hard flesh. It's been too long, he's forgotten-- he can't handle this rush of endless pleasure, the eager grasp of flesh begging to be recoded, to be molded, to be _fucked_. Maybe, once, when he was young and stupid and whored his way through every passing corpse, but he's been playing it cool for too long, doing the one-man show, making a name for himself. It's been a while. This is too much, he can't-- he can't keep it together. He feels himself unwinding, unraveling under the onslaught of sensation, and bites down on the back of Jones' neck to keep from screaming, pumping into the virus hard and fast.

Jones screams and climaxes, spilling his own useless code on to the floor and his hips only work harder against Thrax's, spurring him on, and he's nowhere close to coherent, just sobbing this kind of endless noise of '_more_' and '_ye_s' and '_please_' and '_Thrax_' and Thrax is moaning, himself, moaning shit like _'so sweet'_ and _'keep going'_ and _'I love you'_-- and maybe he didn't mean to say it, but it's true, he does, Jones is the best thing that ever happened to him.

Jones wails and twists around him, begging for more even as he boils from the inside out, the last remnants of his old DNA sequence burning up in a storm of recoding. His skin flushes redder, and claws stretch out longer, and he heats up under Thrax's hands, burning, incandescent as he climaxes again, again, each burst of ecstasy wiping away one more imperfection, bringing him closer and closer to his one true form, his best form, making him into the monster he was born to be, making him into Thrax's boy forever.

"Look at me," Thrax pants, pounding into him, and when Jones isn't coherent enough to turn his head Thrax pulls his face around himself, twisting him painfully-- his hot red skin doesn't stretch as far, and Jones twists with his neck and his shoulders and his spine, a sharp and elegant contortion.

His eyes are gold-green, perfect and clear and clean and _empty_.

(_there's a little virus at the bar, choking on a bowl of sugar paste, and Thrax feels that sweet familiar rush of longing: oh, to be young again, to have a pretty young thing by his side, taking those first steps_--)

"_Jones_," Thrax says like it's a prayer, and spills for the last time into him, surrendering.

There is a long pause as the whole world stops, where they are suspend in this quiet little moment of time. Just breathing. Then Jones shifts and murmurs something wordless and Thrax comes back to himself, pulls off of him. Steps back.

Jones steps with him, shaky as a colt, and looks up at him.

"You're done," Thrax says. He's still breathing a little hard, his balance not quite right. He smoothes his dreadlocks back with a practiced gesture, then reaches out to brush his claws through his boy's own messy crown. "You're all grown up, Mister Jones."

Jones stares up at him, then down at his trembling hands. One claw stretches, easy as breathing, and lights the room. He twists it back and forth, feeling the toxic power radiate from it, then sets the tip against Thrax's chest, right where Thrax's nucleus would be, if he had a nucleus.

"Talk to me, baby," Thrax says. He puts his hand out gently, like Jones is some skittish wild thing, and cups his face. "Come on, Jones, sweet thing. How are you feeling?"

"Weird," Jones says. His voice is a sexy, smoky rasp, worn down from screaming.

"Yeah," Thrax agrees. "You get used to it."

Jones looks at him, a strange little frown playing over his new mouth.

"You said you loved me," he says, a little lost, a little accusing. A little hopeful.

Thrax smiles, gathers the new virus into his arms. "I was going to kill the whole world for you," Thrax says, nuzzling his cheek, "If you were dead. When you were dead. Just to make them all pay. I love you."

Jones laughs, low and bitter, and it makes Thrax shudder with pleasure and sadness both.

(--_this nasty world, this cold and empty world that chews sweet things up and spits them out broken--_)

"You're the only person that's ever loved me," Jones says. "Isn't that-- isn't that weird? You're the only one."

He laughs again, careless and crazy, and curls up against Thrax's chest. "Let's do it," he whispers against Thrax's neck. His skin is exactly the same temperature as Thrax's, smooth and red and deceptively unmarked.

"Do what?" Thrax asks.

"Let's kill the whole world," Jones says, and that third eye comes open and glows blue-white. "Let's make them pay."

"Anything, baby," Thrax says, and he doesn't know yet how much he means it, "Anything you want."

(_He's little and he's young but he's Thrax's boy, he's perfect and nobody's going to hurt his baby ever, ever again.)_

END.


End file.
